Cooking Up Trouble Page 17

  Of course, if he wanted children, he’d have to get married someday. There wasn’t any other socially acceptable option of getting them that he was aware of. And he’d be damned if he’d bring bastards into the world. That particular family tradition ended with him. He scowled for a moment under the influence of the thought, but didn’t feel like dwelling on it. There were more pleasant things to think about than his miserable past. With a grin, he wondered what Heather would do if he proposed to her.

  Good God, what was he thinking?

  Philippe sat up straight in his chair and frowned. He’d better watch his step or he’d be in big trouble. He sank back against the cushions and told himself to relax. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the institution of marriage. Hell, if his mother had been married, Philippe himself might not be such an alienated creature today.

  He hated thinking about his mother, because when he did, his insides got muddled. He recalled her as a beautiful woman. And even warm and tender with him on occasion. But he also recalled the screaming fits, the temper tantrums, the crying sprees, and the men. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of men, all taking pleasure from her and taking her away from him. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the memory of himself as a lonely child who needed his mother. Philippe didn’t like to think of himself as needing anything.

  Except, perhaps, children. A legacy. A way to secure his worth to the world. On his own, Philippe feared he was a pitifully imperfect specimen of mankind. But if he had children, children who could carry on with the ranch after he died, well, then . . . He might truly believe he’d accomplished something besides rising from the mud and creating himself as a successful man.

  It was strange to Philippe that he had always been drawn to children. He hid the weakness well, of course. He’d never let on that he had a very human desire to perpetuate himself, because it sounded so puerile a conceit, somehow. Yet here, in his own parlor, in his own house, surrounded by the trappings he’d earned by himself and by his own hard efforts, it didn’t seem like a bad thing to want.

  If he had children, needless to say, they wouldn’t be burdened with a past like his own. No. If Philippe St. Pierre ever had children, they’d know both their father and their mother. They wouldn’t have to share their mother with a thousand men. Philippe’s heart hurt every time he thought about his mother—which was one reason he tried never to do so. It was also one of the reasons he supported that orphanage in New Orleans. He couldn’t bear the thought of children growing up unwanted and uncared-for.

  Heather was nothing at all, in any way ever, like his mother. Thank God. Her very difference might be what attracted him most, in fact. And that was a good thing.

  He wondered what the girl, who was always nervous around him, would do if he courted her. With another grin, he decided it might be fun to find out.

  By God, it couldn’t hurt to try. If he could win Heather Mahaffey’s favor, perhaps he could really, finally and forever, vanquish his miserable past.

  The next morning, no longer under the influence of Fort Summers’ society, a delicious meal, and a good deal of brandy, Philippe decided to wait and see. For all he knew, Heather Mahaffey possessed ghastly imperfections that would render her an unsuitable choice for a wife. The notion of being stuck with a whining woman, for example, or one who snored, made his stomach ache. No. Philippe didn’t want to make any mistakes when choosing a wife.

  If he ever decided to take a wife.

  He shuddered and concluded that he’d just had a narrow escape. No more drinking for him. He worked hard that day and felt much better for it afterwards.

  * * *

  Yvonne’s heart battered against her ribs like a kettle drum, and it was all she could do to keep from peering over her shoulder every other second, searching for D.A. Bologh. She knew he’d come after her. She knew he’d find her. She only hoped she could forestall the inevitable long enough for her to warn Philippe.

  “Well, ma’am,” the station agent said. “There ain’t no way to get there that’s straight.”

  “No?” She wanted to scream at the man standing before her scratching his chin and looking stupid that she didn’t care if the way was straight or curved or went through hell itself. All she cared about was getting there.

  “No, ma’am. You’ll have to take this here train to Texas.” He poked the schedule with a dirty fingernail. “This here one that goes to Fort Worth. Then you’ll have to take another train to Albuquerque.”

  “To where?” Yvonne squinted at the book, trying to read it upside down. “Where did you say?”

  “Albuquerque. That there’s a city in the territory, ma’am. They got strange names out there. Injun, I reckon.”

  “Albuquerque. I see. And is that near Fort Summers?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Again, Yvonne suppressed the urge to scream. “Then,” she said through clenched teeth, “how do I get to Fort Summers from Albuquerque?”

  “I’m a-lookin’ it up fer you, ain’t I?” The man squinted at the book. “Hell—beg pardon, ma’am. But I don’t see that there’s no railroad line into the town of Fort Summers. Looks like the closest train station would be in a place called Roswell, and that’s forty-five mile east of the fort.”

  “I’m sure I can secure some kind of transportation from Roswell to Fort Summers,” Yvonne said. In truth, she knew no such thing because she was accustomed to the civilized surroundings of New Orleans, where transportation wasn’t a problem. One walked or took a hackney or a streetcar.

  “I expect so, ma’am.” The station agent shut the book with a thump. “So is that what you want to do?”

  “Yes.” Her nerves were crawling and skipping like ants at a picnic, and this idiot stood there asking her questions she’d answered a hundred times already. Yvonne clutched her small reticule in fingers that ached from the strain and told herself it wasn’t his fault she’d finally decided to break away from D.A. Bologh.

  “All rightie, ma’am. Just wait a little minute, and we’ll get you all fixed up.”

  Yvonne sincerely doubted it.

  * * *

  “I don’t know why you’re so blasted touchy today.” Heather frowned at D.A. Bologh, who was throwing pots and pans around as if he were mad at them.

  “I’m not touchy!” he bellowed, and slammed a skillet onto a burner.

  Heather winced. “You could have fooled me.”

  “Anyone could fool you,” D.A. said nastily. “You just try fixing a cheese soufflé in this hell-hole, with all the thumping and banging going on, and see how you like it.”

  “Did it fall?” Heather asked curiously. D.A. had never complained about the less-than-stellar accommodations prevailing in her territorial homeland before.

  He shot her a sneer over his shoulder. “Of course it didn’t fall. What do you think I am, anyway?”

  “I’d probably best not say.”

  “Ha-ha. You’re excessively funny today, aren’t you?”

  Heather sighed. “Probably not.”

  “You’re right about that.” D.A. stuck a wooden fork and spoon into a huge wooden bowl and tossed the salad. He’d put things in it that Heather didn’t know could go into a salad. She knew about the lettuce and tomatoes, but D.A. put sliced onions and cooked beets and broken cauliflower florets and stuffed Spanish olives into his salad. God alone knew where he got such provisions. And, what’s more, the salad tasted really good when he tossed everything with his very own oil-and-vinegar-and-herb concoction that he called a French dressing.

  “This place is the end of the universe, and I hate it,” D.A. muttered.

  “Why do you stay then?” Heather wished he’d go away, actually, although that would mean the end of her employment and abject humiliation. And no more Philippe. Her heart squeezed at the last thought.

  D.A. opened the oven door and withdrew a casserole of potatoes and onions baked with herbs and milk. “I have a job to do.” He sounded annoyed about it. He slammed the casserole on t
he counter. “Here. Potatoes. These westerners need their potatoes with everything.”

  “Oh.” Heather liked potatoes herself. She decided to try putting a little sugar into the conversation. Maybe that would sweeten his disposition. “Thank you for doing such a wonderful job with the dinner party yesterday, Mr. Bologh. I understand from Mr. St. Pierre that everyone loved the food, and the party went very well. He called me in and spoke to me about it personally this morning.”

  She flushed from head to toe, remembering that conversation. Mrs. Van der Linden had been furious. But Philippe had been so very complementary to Heather, and had thanked her so copiously for creating such a wonderful repast for his guests, that Heather almost forgot for a minute that she hadn’t had anything to do with it. Which didn’t last long. As soon as she returned to the kitchen and encountered a muttering, cranky D.A., reality had returned with a crash.

  “Don’t thank me, sweetie. You’ll pay me back one of these days, believe me.”

  He sounded malicious, and Heather’s insides scrunched up. “Er, about that, I really think it’s time you told me what you want in payment, D.A. I don’t like not knowing.”

  “You’ll know soon enough.” D.A. ladled out something he’d called braised endives. They looked like little cooked lettuces to Heather, and she hoped Mr. St. Pierre would like them. He probably would. D.A. knew his way around a meal; she’d give him that much.

  Now she made a face at his back. “Why won’t you tell me now? I’d like to prepare for it, if it’s bad.”

  “Ha! You won’t need to prepare. Trust me.”

  She wished she could. Unfortunately, she didn’t. Although, she must admit that he hadn’t gone back on his word to her so far. He’d handled the cooking for a few weeks now and hadn’t once slipped up. Nor had he allowed anyone but Heather to see him. Even Mrs. Van der Linden almost believed Heather was doing all the work in the kitchen, and Heather knew how much the old bat hated giving credit to anyone.

  D.A.’s month of service was almost up, however, and she was getting nervous about being left alone to cook. She’d been taking cookbooks to bed with her each night and reading all sorts of recipes, and she thought she might be able to whip up something very simple if push came to shove. But it would be a long time before she could create the masterpieces of culinary art that D.A. fixed every day and so easily. None of this kitchen nonsense would ever be easy for Heather; she knew it in her bones.

  As she began arranging dishes on the cart upon which she took food to the dining room, she decided to broach the subject. “Um, April’s almost over now, Mr. Bologh.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  Heather peeked at him. She didn’t like him, but she’d never heard him sound this crabby before. “It occurred to me that you agreed to help me for a month. The month is over on the first of May, and I—well—I wondered—” Shoot. What she wondered was would he be willing to keep cooking for her, actually. Until she’d read more cookbooks. Say, a thousand or so.

  Lord, she’d never be able to handle this on her own.

  “Don’t worry about it,” D.A. growled. “I’ll stick around for another month if you want me to. Just remember that you owe me.”

  “How could I forget?” Heather asked sourly.

  D.A.’s laugh seemed particularly ugly today.

  * * *

  Philippe wasn’t surprised, and he wasn’t awfully amused, when Heather jumped a good three inches and gaped at him.

  “You mean you want me to sit at the dining room table and eat dinner with you?”

  He tilted his head to one side and observed her through half-lowered eyelids. “Would that be such an irksome task, Miss Mahaffey?”

  Heather looked around the room almost wildly. “But—but there’s nobody else here. Sir.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you to dine with me.” His voice, he noticed, had taken on an edge of irritation. Damnation, why should the wench balk at dining with him? Had he grown a second head? Was he sprouting horns? Was he so evil and mean-tempered that she should have this terrible aversion to him? “Unless, of course, you have other plans.” He smiled. If his smile reflected his present mood, it was wolfish, but he didn’t much care. He was sick to death of Heather’s attitude toward him.

  “Um, no, I have no other plans.”

  “Good. Then please, remove that ugly apron and have a seat, Miss Mahaffey. I asked Mrs. Van der Linden to set a second place, as you can see for yourself.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it. Is sitting with me such a dreadful way to pass a meal?”

  “It’s not that, Mr. St. Pierre. It’s Mrs. Van der Linden. She’ll be furious that you asked her to set a place for me, of all people.”

  “Really?” He lifted an eyebrow and saw her swallow. “And why is that, pray?”

  “Um, she doesn’t like me much. Sir.”

  “You may toss away that sir, Miss Mahaffey, if you please.”

  She expelled a huge breath. “All right. Mr. St. Pierre.”

  He nodded. “Please sit, then, and tell me why Mrs. Van der Linden doesn’t like you, if you will.”

  She seemed to give up the fight. Her shoulders sagged, and she complied with his request, folding the apron neatly and laying it over the back of a chair. She sat with her accustomed grace, folded her hands, and put them demurely in her lap. Since demure was about the last adjective Philippe could think of to describe Heather Mahaffey, this behavior on her part interested and vaguely amused him.

  He’d put in a hard day. More cattle had disappeared overnight, and there had been a fire in a haystack. If Gil McGill and Mike Mulligan hadn’t been quick on their feet, the entire barn could have burned down. All of that, while his guests had been devouring Heather’s glorious dinner.

  Philippe was honestly beginning to believe that someone in Fort Summers held a grudge against him, although he couldn’t imagine who it could be. Hell, he hadn’t lived here long enough to make enemies.

  He’d even briefly contemplated the possibility that Gil or Mike might hate him for some obscure reason, but had tucked it away. The notion was too absurd—unless one of the boys was flat crazy, and neither of them acted like a lunatic.

  At any rate, the day had been difficult; he’d sweated buckets and worn himself to a frazzle, and now he wanted to relax. He felt an unaccustomed urge to do so in company, what’s more, and the only company he could think of that was easily obtained and totally acceptable to him was that of Heather Mahaffey.

  He was going to put her at ease in his company, starting now. He eyed her, noticing her downcast eyes and tense jaw muscles. She hadn’t looked the least bit tense when she was buck-naked in the bathhouse. He told himself to stop thinking about the bathhouse, or he might, by accident, let some of his lustful thoughts leak into the air in the dining room and unsettle her. If she were any more unsettled, she might just break in two. “I suppose you say grace in your family, Miss Mahaffey?”

  Her head jerked up and she stared at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, we do.”

  “Would you care to do the honors here?” Philippe had about as much truck with prayers as he did with horseless carriages, but he didn’t want to shock the natives. He’d asked Miss Grimsby, the schoolmistress, to say grace at his dinner party, thereby startling most of the men in the company. It had done Philippe’s heart good to see their discomposure. He loathed tradition. Besides, the women had appreciated it—he’d thought of Heather and grinned. Fortunately, by that time, all heads were bowed, and no one noticed.

  “Um, certainly. I’ll be happy to say grace.” She bowed her head and recited, “God is gracious, God is good. Thank you for this food. Amen.” He made the sign of the cross, and she opened her eyes.

  Perfunctory, at best. Philippe snapped his napkin open and placed it in his lap. Miss Grimsby had been much more creative. She’d even thanked her Heavenly Father for Philippe, probably the first time anyone had ever done that. Miss Mahaffey would sooner condemn him to
the pit at the moment, or he missed his guess.

  “So what have you created for my delectation this evening, Miss Mahaffey?” Philippe lifted a lid and sniffed at the potatoes. “Do I detect garlic?” He liked garlic, but he hadn’t encountered it much out here.

  “Um, yes. Yes, there’s garlic in the potatoes. And herbs. And onions.” She licked her lips.

  “I see. Well, it smells good enough to eat.”

  “I hope it is.”

  He glanced at her as he served a plate. “You sound doubtful.”

  “Oh, ah, no. It’s just that I’m—always a little nervous about people liking what I cook.”

  He shook his head. “You need have no fears on that score, Miss Mahaffey. I’ve never met a better cook.”

  “Thank you.” If her voice got any smaller, Philippe wouldn’t be able to hear it at all.

  “Ah, and what’s this? A soufflé?”

  “Um, yes. I think.”

  “You think?”

  She stood suddenly, making Philippe blink in surprise.

  “Mr. St. Pierre, I have a confession to make.”

  “You do?” Whatever could this sweet, innocent girl have to confess? Nothing awfully improper, he bet. Unless she’d been rolling in the hay with one of the cowboys, but Philippe doubted it. She didn’t seem the type somehow.

  “I haven’t been cooking for you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Philippe sat speechless for several seconds. His silence must have made Heather even more anxious than usual, because she started wringing her hands.

  “It’s true. A man named D.A. Bologh has been doing all the cooking. I can’t cook anything worth eating. It’s all him. He’s the one. I only said I could cook because—because—because the wind drove me to it.” She frowned. “Although, of course, it’s not the wind’s fault that I lied.”